Wendel had a problem.

He wondered why the cocaine was gone.

There wasn’t a ton to begin with, but he’d hoped it would last. That depressed him, but sadness was nothing new. He’d played a gig that was supposed to be stellar, but wasn’t. The venue was supposed to be packed with tons of new fans who would certainly buy merchandise, but it hadn’t been. The venue owner, a greasy but charming type, lived behind the shoddy box “venue” in a trailer. At least the animals scurrying underneath it had a place to sleep, unlike Wendel.

‘Little venues look good with few or tons of fans,’ he’d thought, before and during the twelve-hour drive. His vehicle even made the trip, which was unexpected good fortune. He looked out into the club again, hoping it was a joke.

His wallet, gas tank, and belly were all too empty to laugh.

“Five paid tickets isn’t enough. We didn’t sell any merch, either,” Wendel said. No one replied.

Outside the tiny ‘green room’ was a tiny stage. A bar sat near that, if it could honestly be called a bar. Wendel’s merch stand sat beside it, helpless; it hadn’t been touched all night. He’d slapped stuff down defiantly a few mere hours ago, sure the show the whole world his worth. As he took the stage, he’d been ready to earn his legend. For merch money to fly in his face, too. Maybe to even make some new fans. He felt it drilling into his bones from his veins: he needed to make progress, and needed it soon.

It wasn’t cool to be so broke for so long. He hated money, the mere concept, but he couldn’t change the world without gas and a snack. Maybe a soda.

Now that the drugs were up his nose, there was no reason to stay, except he was nearly out of gas. No money to buy some, either, thanks to utter lack of merch cash. He’d spent the pocket change scattered on his van floor just to get there. Now he was there and not home, without the pocket change.

He’d hurt himself for the dream again, but this time, the dream fell short on him. It was trending that way, lately. His dreams were failing to come true. Come through? Maybe it was all the same; shades of failure were similar.

He’d gone hungry for the hot lights many times. He dreamed of playing on stages he’d never even touched as a fan. Hand-to-mouth life was fine, for Wendel, as long as it paid off somehow, but the payoffs lately were crushing him.

He’d finally learned that living dreams was expensive. He was just about broke.

He’d left the rent under his mattress, back home; so much cash he’d hidden away where he absolutely could not reach it. That hidden stack of green government bills was all he had in the world, and it was so far away it felt impossible to get back. As if worlds existed between him and his cash.

His home cried out for him. There were real walls and a roof, there, even if rats lived inside both. His dream had room to breathe, back home. If he didn’t make it that exact moment, he’d make it later, he thought. Home understood that, didn’t judge if he fell short sometimes. His fire escape didn’t judge him, nor did the ghosts of stars as he made wishes.

“Wishing on the graves of ghost stars.” That wasn’t bad. He tried to lock it into memory as he looked back down at the table pressing into his knees.

The cocaine, for certain, was gone. His pockets were, certainly, empty. At moments like this, dire ones, his hands started looking for things to grab. He’d done work, after all, tried his best. He’d been lied to, sure. The gig hadn’t been a bust because of him, it had flopped for every reason EXCEPT him.

“Time to get magical, to see what the universe has as a payoff.”

He scanned the room. One reproduced painting of a little Spring scene, on the opposite wall: out of place, basically worthless. The couch he was sitting on was destroyed, plus too big to snag. He looked around harder, and noticed a little plastic bag handle sticking out from underneath a half-smashed table in the corner.

“Who murdered you, friend? Who hides treasures in your grave?” He pushed away the wood and saw two little plastic bottles in the bag: one bottle looked like mouthwash, jade green, about a shooter’s worth. The other claimed to be diet pills, but there wasn’t safety information anywhere on the bottle.

“Shakespearean! The grave held gold. Dangerous gold, maybe.” Sitting back down, he examined the two bottles with deepening sadness. One contained minty booze chemicals, and the other was full of question marks. At least he was partying again, if less safely. No one made a legend while safe, he was almost sure, so he slugged back the mouthwash.

“This stuff won’t get me to the moon, but maybe it’ll get me to space?” The diet pills ignored him and the dive owner popped his head through the door.

“Man, show’s been done for a while. I’m closing up.” The fellow had no interest in Wendel now that the gig had flopped. Wendel had seen that before. No thanks came for the legendary gig he’d done.

“Liar in the white dress, she is. Runs into the room and is gone before he-” He balked at the words he hoped would someday save him. Wendel wasn’t feeling wise in that green room; like words weren’t his friends after all. He needed them to be, so he silenced his doubts.

The club was near silent except for the fluorescent hum from overhead. A sudden rumble from the fridge made a rugged harmony. The machinery duet filled his void, if momentarily, so he tried to rally himself. He put his shoes back on. He never liked to play with shoes on, but wearing them everywhere else made him feel like a liar. The dim lights and humming fridge kicked off in simultaneous perfection, and the room went dark. Like the universe itself was telling him he sucked.

Maybe he did.

“Get out, brother. Back door’s to your right.” Wendel tried to find his shoes and worn-out backpack without light; that didn’t seem hopeful either as he stumbled over the coffee table. With a flash of light from his dying phone, he found it and jammed in the diet pills. After a second, he wondered if they were even worth stealing.

“Only one way to find out.” Two girls were standing outside the door as he exited. He’d expected to be swaddled in that after-gig sort of loneliness: a type that fills you with either gratitude or hatred. It tended to be heavy, when he got seated in the van, totally broke. Yet before him there stood some sort of sunbeams. Lady beams.

His eyes were wide. His hands began to twitch. Trying to remain calm, he embarked towards them. As he stepped closer, they both smiled.

’Even better,’ he thought, his mind counting down like a space launch. Good vibes, thus far, and so much energy was beginning to course through him. Maybe the night was getting better.

The two seemed to be seeking work and were ready for it. He saw in them a silver radiance, a warmth of love that made his heart race more. The beauty of celestial connection, given flesh, dove into his eyes from the cliffs of their auras.

’Maybe they have gas money, too!’

”Windy Paradise, I declare,” one said. She was taller and the meaner-looking of the two. Was she trying to act southern? They weren’t exactly anywhere southern. Perhaps the two were lost, like he was. Cast off the mast into the sea of divine revelry; reality unbinding, seeing clearly at long last. Confused, like his divine mind climbing that pine-tree vested mountain behind them.

Wendel tried to focus. He was sailing inside, sure, but his pockets were still empty. Maybe he could score some help off them; soar off to neverland, hand in hand.

”Ladies, I warn you, I just snorted a fistful of multi-colored diet pills. They could have been many things, if I’m honest. Now I’m stained-from my toes, up to my brain, and… I need your help. I want to be famous, and you COULD see my dreams with me-someday, as well. Could you ride along with Windy for the night? I am not frightened by you, if you’re not lightning-”

The girls stared, quiet. Wendel tried again.

“No, that’s not it. If you’re not frightened of my lightning? Ha. There it is.” Two girls smiled at the words, giving Wendel courage, but they kept their distance. Their eyes were honest, looking over Wendel like he’d just gotten back from the moon. Wendel felt like he was just taking off.

In truth, the girls had just been stranded. One girl’s name was Clerk, and she was a mouthful of thumbtacks on her best day. Claire, the other, was a gentler soul than Clerk. She also possessed a crisp Fifty-Dollar bill mashed up in her top front pocket, where as Clerk had infinite sharp words. Claire carried the heavy idea in her head that she’d had enough of their rusty old town, and wanted to go. Anywhere, with anyone, even Wendel’s alter-ego, Windy Paradise. Clerk just hated things in general and liked to raze whatever was around her, leading her forward as she destroyed all things nearby.

Wendel didn’t know that yet.

The three of them stood an awkward distance apart, trying to make the situation go the way they all wanted. The girls were seeking a simple escape while Wendel dreamed of surviving the pills he’d snorted and maybe sleeping under a roof before the sunrise. Maybe getting halfway home by then, too.

He tried to think, but now it felt dangerous. Things were changing, if only under the surfaces of the seas. After a moment of silent speech between the two beaches of various-colored sand, Clerk piped up. That startled Wendel, who was staring off into the nearby tree line, keeping watch for legendary creatures, or more angels with cash on them.

“We’re looking for any lightning you got, killer. That your van?” Wendel looked at it to ensure it was his, then nodded when mostly sure. The edges were being defiant, but seemed familiar. He was trying not to show his pill-aided ascent, but that was proving impossible every moment that he tried to seem calm. He wished he’d charmed the girls before the pills? They didn’t feel entirely helpful, there on the gravel.

Wendel looked down at his feet and noticed he hadn’t put his shoes on, and the parking lot was covered in large-stone gravel. He felt the stones stabbing into him, but only sort of. Suddenly he looked back up at them, then spoke hurriedly.

“Ladies I call that the Cara-van, and yes, it rides like the wind. Whatever that means, right? Can one ride the wind? Like…” Wendel trailed off for a second, then came back. “It got me here I guess. Look, I really need gas, sassafras. Please help me… pass?” The girls did more silent speaking, or maybe Wendel just couldn’t hear their glimmering words. He interrupted the words, or not, by spitting.

“Pardon me.” Wendel had tried to spit towards the woods as an act of defiance, perhaps at the woods themselves, or the magical beasts within. Most of the spit had sadly dribbled down his chin. The rest didn’t get much farther.

Claire swept in, speaking at last, with her sing-song lilt. “I think we can fund getting you somewhere, if you have somewhere to take us, Windy.” In that moment, Wendel found HIS angel on Earth, a kind soul. Perhaps lost, like him, in a sky of twinkling lights. Something about graveyards of stars, from earlier? He couldn’t remember, but she was better, anyway.

It almost hurt to focus his eyes on her. He tried to squint, which made him look even more foolish. Spit still trickled down his stubble, making it harder for the girls to latch onto him as their savior. Wendel wondered what was in some of those pills, then he wondered what was in the rest. Clerk, a broken bottle human if ever there was one, took control. She seemed made for that, but not much else.

”Let’s roll, then! Let’s steal tonight,” Clerk said. Wendel didn’t know if he wanted to steal more stuff, but he was hungry. Also, he wanted to throw up. Claire whooped and hollered as they took off towards the van. Wendel tried to shout, too, but it came out more a murmur.

”Ladies, I’ll die for you tonight, if only you’ll tell me your names. On pain of death, I will hold my breath till you tell me your magical, angel… names.” He spit again, this time doing slightly better. The girls named themselves next, and he nodded, not really listening.

Clerk fired off a sharp sentence to get his attention. The tone was sharp, anyway. Claire was already pulling at the handle. They were officially coming along, he realized. That made him feel something, closing in on good but not quite. Inside the Cara-van they all climbed.

”Take us along, Windy. If you can drive?” Wendel shrugged a few times, trying to shake himself loose. He replied in style, not drooling at all.

”I’ve seen worse worlds and countries than this one, and been in worse states, too. I see the blue speaking of truth and I do speak it too. A stranger we all know, I suppose: truth.” The angels didn’t seem to grasp his greatness, but they were angels. Maybe his word smithing had room for improvement, or they spoke on different frequencies of the celestial tongue.

Doubtful, he thought quickly to himself. There was only one sort of great, and he was it.

“Speaking of states, ladies, where are we?” Clerk slid her hand under the steering wheel and wrapped her mighty paws around the keys.

”I’ll get us to the gas station! No worries, Windy.”

Windy just smiled, showing off his pearly whites that he almost wished were yellow.

To Be Continued…